


Every Rose Can Sting You

by Who_Needs_Reality



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Bachelorette, Attempt at Humor, Bachelorette Clarke, Cameraman Bellamy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Pining Clarke, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Needs_Reality/pseuds/Who_Needs_Reality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke expected to encounter annoying guys when she got forced into becoming the Bachelorette, but she didn't realise that the most annoying of them all would be the head cameraman. Because seriously, Bellamy Blake is a total prick. It's a good thing there's absolutely no chance of her ever actually liking him, because boy, would that be inconvenient... </p><p>Or, <b>The Bachelorette AU<b> nobody asked for.</b></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Rose Can Sting You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowersandsunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersandsunshine/gifts).



> So this is the latest product of my Bellarke trash cycle, and okay, it was super fun to write! You'll notice that I know nothing about television production and I kind of just ran with it. So it goes.

Clarke wishes she could live in a society without money. Money really is the root of all evil. If money wasn't a thing, real estate would be free, her mother would have no power over her, and she would not be having this conversation.

"This is ridiculous," she says pointedly, scowling into her coffee.

"I don't see why, Clarke," Abby frowns, and Clarke has to roll her eyes because of  _course_  this makes sense to her mother. "You need the money, the studio needs a Bachelorette- it's a perfect complement of interests."

"Mom, I am _not_ going on that glorified bride sale!"

"If you think it's misogynistic, don't worry, you know we do  _The Bachelor_  as well—"

"That's not the point! The whole thing is gross— a bunch of smarmy dudes all pretending to fawn over some girl they barely know, every single person in the show just putting on some fake personality because they want money-" 

Abby tuts. "It's not so insidious, Clarke. We don't force anyone to do anything, it's practically a paid holiday!" 

“Yeah, a paid holiday where you turn the institution of marriage into a platform with which to exploit America's consumer culture!"

Abby purses her lips disapprovingly. "You know, I wouldn't be bringing this up if you'd just stayed in Med School..."

Clarke massages her temple, exasperated. “I am not having this conversation with you again."

Abby looks hard at her, then sighs. “You’re being unreasonable— this is a fantastic opportunity!"

Clarke doesn't budge. "Don't you have casting calls for these things?"

"Ratings have been slipping, we need someone different..." 

"So the rich white girl is different?" Clarke snorts in disbelief. "And _don't_ bring my sexuality into this. Not that it matters to the show because it's so damn heteronormative.”

"You're a college graduate, Clarke," Abby continues as though Clarke hadn't spoken, "you bring a certain class..." 

"Wow, you've managed to hit white privilege, heteronormativity,  _and_  classism in less than five minutes! That's a record, even for you."

“ _Rent_ , Clarke, you need to pay your rent," snaps her mother, running out of patience, "I'm not bailing you out, you can't live on the streets, and you're earning a pittance. You _know_ this is your only option.”

She does. She clenches her fists, grinds her teeth, and tries not to throw something at her smug producer of a mother.

Money really does suck.

 - - -

"Explain to me again how you roped me into this?" Wells looks dazed, though mildly amused, as he leaves the office.

"You were a caveat," Clarke says, sliding into the driver's seat, "a safety net. If all the other dudes are gross weirdos..." 

He snorts. "You can marry me instead. Romantic."

"Thanks, I try." Clarke has to admit, signing Wells up as a contestant was a genius move on her part. He'll keep her sane, if nothing else, and it's not like she'll actually have to marry him— heck, they'll probably get a kick out of the televised fake engagement and laugh about it for years after.

 "But, uh, don't we have to be strangers? I didn't think I'd qualify for the show..."

"Being the childhood best friend and all, yeah— Wells, ever heard of _acting_? We just pretend like we don't know each other and move on."

Wells wrings his hands nervously. "Won't people… notice?"

Clarke laughs. "You have no idea how scripted this shit is— ‘Fake Strangers’ is probably nothing."

"You're really scary, you know that?”

"Thanks."

 - - - 

In a show that involves twenty-four gold-digging bachelors (well, twenty-three gold-digging bachelors, plus Wells), Clarke expected to encounter douchebags and dickheads aplenty.

She didn't realize she would meet any before shooting even started.

"Jesus, Princess, can you just. Stand. _Still_?" The cameraman glowers at her as she shifts awkwardly, trying to gaze off into the horizon without cringing at herself.

"And could you kindly remove the stick from up your ass?" she scowls back. Bellini, or whatever his stupid name is, is the head cameraman for the show, and Abby introduced them this morning, suggesting they "establish a working rapport in time for production." If four hours of griping, snarking, sniping, and refusing to make even the most minimal conversation without a series of varied grunts and huffs count as "establishing a rapport," then they have succeeded. 

"Some of us have real jobs," he retorts, "actual, time-consuming, technical jobs. You, princess, have to stare at the waves for like five minutes and _stand fucking still_. God!"  

It's not like Clarke doesn't know why he's taken an instant disliking to her— producer's daughter, star of the show, blah blah blah— the whole thing makes Clarke nauseous. She can’t exactly blame Bellamy for resenting her class and privilege. It's just that, well, Clarke doesn't _want_ to be on this stupid, stupid show. She hates it more than anyone, it's been pretty much wrecking her entire life since that conversation with her mom, and she can't help it. She gets really pissed off at the cameraman, who's apparently decided to hate all that she stands for.

She fidgets her way back into the pose, chin resting in her hands as she leans on the balcony, gazing at the ocean. It's probably supposed to give  _Romeo and Juliet_  vibes, but it just feels cheesy. 

"Okay," grunts the cameraman, “we're done." He skulks off to run tech with the crew, and Clarke slumps to the floor in relief. Her phone buzzes. Seeing it’s Wells, she smiles weakly.

_hows it going?_

_plz kill me_ she texts back,  _or the camera guy will_.

_should i come beat someone up for you?_

She bites back a smirk.  _I don't want you to die for me buddy, don't fight camera hulk_.

_Camera hulk?!_

_He could kill with scowls tbh, his arms are like tree trunks_.

 

 "Clarke!" she glances upwards, then wishes she hadn't.

 "Hey Marcus."

Marcus Kane is the host of  _The Bachelorette,_  and an old friend of the family. She doesn't actually dislike him all that much, but there's a weird  _vibe_  between him and 

her mother that Clarke just doesn't want to deal with.

"I'm so glad you've, ah... come onboard," he says, smiling down at her awkwardly. He's definitely less uncomfortable on camera.

Clarke smiles flatly. "My mom tends to get her way with these things." 

Marcus's smile grows more strained and he rubs the back of his neck. "So," he says, "I hear Thelonius's son will be joining us too." 

Clarke nods. "Wells will be participating. But don't worry, we'll feign being strangers."

"Good girl," say Marcus and Clarke shudders. She doubts he  _means_  to sound creepy but _Jesus_. 

"Hey, Princess if you're done, we've got more footage to shoot." Bellamy barely looks at her over his shoulder, marching off in another direction. She scrambles to her feet, both cranky about Bellamy, and relieved to escape Marcus. 

"Duty calls," she says, hastily.

 "Ah, of course." Marcus looks instantly more relaxed as she leaves, and Clarke tries to be grateful to Bellamy for the reprieve, however unintentional.

 "Next time," says the cameraman, "if you could speed up your tête-à-têtes with the important people, us little folk would be _so_ thankful."

 Clarke scowls at him. "You're a dick."

 He scoffs. "Get in position Princess."

 She does but makes sure to flip him off very clearly as she goes.

 - - -

"Are you serious?" Clarke stares at her mother in incredulous horror. "Do you enjoy making every aspect of my life as miserable as you possibly can?"

 "Don't be so dramatic, Clarke," Abby says, though a muscle in her jaw twitches which Clarke goes ahead and counts as a victory, "it makes sense. He'll be around anyway, and the questions will mostly be pre-written..."

 "And my answers will mostly be pre-scripted! I get that part, but you  _know_  we don't work well together— _why_  would you do this?" 

 Abby just informed Clarke that Bellamy Blake would, in addition to being head cameraman, be the interviewer for the show. This meant an entire season's worth of one-on-one, close-and-personal interviews with  _the biggest dick on the planet_.

 "Oh would you _calm down_ ," Abby crosses her arms, wearing her favourite disapproving expression, "at least _try_ to be professional!" 

 "This _isn't_ my job," Clarke spits, "you get that right?"

 "You're getting paid, you'll be set up for the future, people  _dream_  of opportunities like this!”

 " _This_ is The Hunger Games! It's a weird-ass televised tournament that thrives on human suffering. It’s the Hunger Games, and I'm the fucking Cornucopia!” Clarke follows Abby out the room, but Abby marches off, and Clarke finds herself face-to-face with the aforementioned _biggest dick on the planet._

 "I take it mommy gave you the good news?" he smirks and raises an eyebrow. She really wants to punch him.

 "The thing you'll learn about my mother," she says instead, "is that if there is a way to increase the amount of pain in my ass, she _will_ find it and she _will_ use it. So at this point, I wouldn't be surprised if she makes us share a damn _bedroom_."

 He snorts. "Dream on, Princess."

 She rolls her eyes at him. "What are you doing here anyway?"

 He glances at her. "You're not going to like me very much if I tell you."

 "I don't like you much now."

 There goes the eyebrow quirk again. "Well, we start work today."

 She stops to stare at him. "What? Filming doesn't start for months!"

 He sighs, mock-dramatically. "Filming with the  _contestants_  doesn't start for months, but you, Princess, have a bunch of solo stuff that needs to be filmed before the troops get here. The sooner we start, the more time the crew has to edit." He glances at her briefly. "I know this isn't fun for you, but some people have jobs to be doing that hinge on you so—"

 "I get it, I get it," she snaps, "what do we start with?"

 - - -

"So," Bellamy says, focusing the camera, "Clarke. How are you feeling before the show starts?" His curls are springing free from his beanie. 

 "Nauseous," says Clarke, “dead inside. Vaguely matricidal."

 Bellamy snorts, which is actually sort of gratifying, and shakes his head. 

"Understandable. Now can you please tell bored, middle-class, suburban America how you're feeling?"

  _Grin and bear it, Griffin._ She pulls herself up in her chair and forces on a smile so stretched and fake it feels elastic. "I'm at that time in my life, you know, when I just feel like I need somebody to share it with. I need a man to complete me, and _wow_ , I'm just, like, _so_ ready to meet the love of my life."

 "Cut." Bellamy starts fiddling with the camera.

 "Jesus," says Clarke, "that was _awful_. I felt so fake!”

“Yep— it was like the damn Joker got in here." He grins when he sees her grimace. 

“Relax— the rest of the show's so campy it'll fit right in."

Clarke shudders. "I know that's supposed to be good but.... _yuck_."

He actually laughs this time. "How awful does it feel?"

"Like I swam in a lemonade lake," she says, "I need a shower and some serious dental hygiene work."

"Go yell at some kids to get off your damn lawn after this is done, it'll make you feel better. I speak from experience."

She snorts and shifts in her chair. "Do you think anyone would mind if I went on an excessively long rant about female independence in the twenty-first century on camera?"

"Whilst I'm sure I and many others would appreciate that, it's probably better for my job security if you don't. Now, tell us what you're looking for in a man."

"You know, I should go get a girlfriend. Just to spite everyone." She smirks at him. "Advantages of being bi."

He rolls his eyes. "Again, as much as I'm all here for you weaponizing your sexuality, our lives would be so much easier if you just did this."

" _Your_  life.  _Your_  life would be so much easier. I still wouldn't be any further away from having to make out with some pasty gold-diggers on camera for several weeks."

"You'll be in California, the pasty ones will tan in no time. Now come on, let's go again."

She sighs and shakes her hair from her back, before looking at the camera, and, _God_ , fluttering her eyelashes. "I just, I really want someone who makes me feel  _amazing_ ," she says, reading from the teleprompter, "someone who I can make a home with."

"Cut. Wow," Bellamy smirks without looking up from the camera, "how very Donna Reed of you."

"Shut up."

 - - -

"I don't get why this is such a big deal," says Harper, as she and Clarke attempt to drag a box through a door that's too narrow for it, "you've been out here a month already!”

"Yeah, but this isn't just about moving to LA, this is about moving to a suite that _my mother_  is paying for."

"Technically," says Harper, scrunching her nose, "her production company is paying for it."

Clarke glares at her, and they finally manage to get the box inside. "I think that's the last one," she says.

Ordinarily, moving and unpacking is the kind of thing Wells would be involved in, but Kane thinks that, to err on the side of caution, Wells should stay away from Clarke in the immediate run-up to the show. 

"Look on the bright side," says Harper, flopping onto the bed and cracking open a beer, "you don't have to share a house with the bachelors."

Clarke pulls a face. "Small mercies, I guess."

"Seriously though," Harper says, leaning against the pillows, "aren't you a little bit excited? It's kind of wild."

Clarke scowls. "I don't want _wild_. I just want to go back home and fall asleep in front of Netflix forever."

Harper nudges her with her foot, teasing. "Dream big, Griffin. Surely there are _some_ positives?" 

Clarke furrows her brow at the ceiling. "Money," she says, "always money. And Wells will be there. My mother will owe me forever.” She snorts.  “And the camera guy’s a ray of sunshine.”

Harper just smiles into her bottle. "See? It's looking brighter already."

 - - -

The first official day of the show, Clarke wakes up late and grumpy to see about five people crowded into her room.

"What the  _fuck_?" she yelps, sitting up. Kane and Abby are both tapping their watches disapprovingly. Bellamy just waves at her, the smug bastard.

 "You're late," Abby snaps.

"What the hell are _they_ doing here?" Clarke cries, waving her hand in the general direction of the non-Abby people in the room.

"We're just making sure everything runs on schedule," says Kane in a forcefully polite tone that suggests underlying stress-induced psychosis.

Bellamy shrugs. "Kane was my ride, and I got bored waiting in the car."

Clarke groans theatrically as she swings herself out of bed. “Well, can you all just _piss off_ so I can get ready for this hellfest?"

Thankfully, everyone shuffles out, and Clarke puts on jeans and her old, ratty Parsons t-shirt, just to annoy her mother. What? Passive-Aggression is a coping mechanism.

Two hours later, Clarke and a throng of crew members are stationed at the "Bachelor Pad," as Harper dubbed it ("Please," Clarke had shuddered, "don't make this even more gross"). The crew mills around doing all sorts of prep that Clarke really doesn't understand,.Abby and Kane wander around yelling at people, and Clarke just sort of sits there, jiggling her leg nervously. 

"Having fun?" Bellamy, who has apparently forgotten his contacts today, shoves his glasses up the freckled bridge of his nose as he grins at her.

"Endlessly," she deadpans, "it's a riot." She glances at him. "Don't you have stuff to be doing?"

He shrugs. "I'm a cameraman. My work starts when there's stuff worth filming going on."

"Ah. Well then, by all means entertain yourself, come, annoy me."

"Aren't you a delight."

Clarke shrugs a shoulder. "I'm so bored right now, I'll take your dikheadery over inertia."

He snorts. "Dickheadery? And is the root for that Greek or Latin?"

She shoves him in the arm-- which, okay, wow, is _very_ solid-- and tilts her head back, groaning. "I'm  _boooored_ ," she whines.

He laughs. "Jesus, you're worse than Octavia was."

"Who's Octavia?" 

He brushes a lock of hair from his eyes. "My, ah, sister." He goes all closed off for a moment before adding, "she's never coped well with inactivity either."

"God," Clarke closes her eyes, "am I just a real bitch?"

"In general or right now specifically?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "Ah, fuck, I just-- look, I get why you hate me, okay?”

He looks like he might speak but she just ploughs on. 

"I know I've got the dream job, courtesy of my mother, pretty much. Hang around on a glorified vacation for a couple of weeks, stage some relationship drama, get paid a stupid amount of money, go home, the end. And I'm sulking about it."

Bellamy shrugs. "Well," he says, "yeah."

She wipes her face down with her hand. "How much of a tortured rich white girl do I sound like if I say: this is my mother's dream, not mine?"

Bellamy laughs. "I'm having intense Kate Winslet in  _Titanic_  flashbacks."

"Hey, if a nineteen-nineties Leonardo DiCaprio walks in tonight, then this whole thing might just be worth it."

"But not a present day Leo?"

"Did you _see_ him in _The Revenant_?"

Bellamy mimes a shudder. "Yay Oscar, boo facial hair."

Clarke cracks up a little, more from stress than anything else. and nods goodbye to him as he goes to check something with a sound guy.

He finds her again a couple of hours later. "You're up for hair and make-up," he says when he sticks his head through the door, "off you go, Princess." 

Though unless she's imagining it, there's no heat in the nickname.

 - - -

"So, Clarke, are you ready to possibly meet the _love of your life_?"

Hearing Kane sound so unnaturally jovial is definitely weirding her out, as is the somewhat excessively fancy evening gown she's wearing, but she bites back on commenting and instead says, "I'm  _so_  excited, this is _incredible_ ," and then, because she's a passive aggressive asshole who can't help being sarcastic, " _gee-whiz_ , this is  _wild_!”

"Cut!" 

She relaxes her body and sits on the marble wall of the staircase. 

"You ready?" Bellamy asks from his camera stand.

"Not even a little bit."

"Great, because the first limo's pulling up in like five minutes. Back in position."

She digs her nails into her palms and waits for the first guy to emerge from the black vehicle. It's a small, wiry guy who looks more like a kid than a man, with a goofy grin. 

"Hi," she says, smiling as brightly as possible as he wraps her into a hug— in all fairness, they did warn her there'd be hugging— "I'm Clarke, nice to meet you!”

"My name's Jasper, it's great to be here!" 

The next guy also looks like a kid, and is called Monty. There's a whole slew of limos pulling up one-by-one, only a few of the guys really standing out. There's an unpleasant looking dude called Murphy whom she hates on sight. A tall, good-looking guy, Lincoln, who is more tolerable. A slimy man called Cage who is almost certainly too old, and definitely creepy. One guy actually is kind of cute.

"You look beautiful," he says, practically bounding out of the car, and actually kissing her hand. It's disgusting, but at least it's not Cage. 

"Thank you," she smiles at him, "I'm Clarke."

He grins, his hair floppy. "Finn Collins— pleasure to be here."

There are some more guys that show up, and then:

"Wells Jaha, nice to meet you."

He's beaming at her stupidly, and she has to fight the urge to tackle him to the ground in a bear hug. She squeezes him tightly as she says "I'm glad to meet you too."

Finally,  _finally_ , all twenty-five of the men have arrived, and then they cut for a break. Bellamy pulls her aside to film interview snippets about each one.

"So," he says as he sets up the tripod in the interview room, "first impressions, off-record?"

"Murphy definitely looks like a criminal, right?"

Bellamy nods. "Oh yeah. If he doesn't win—“

" _If_?" She is incredulous.

"Hey, love may blossom over time. If he doesn't win, he'll probably just rob all the other contestants and leave. What about Cage, though, what was _up_ with that guy?"

"I don't even know, but I am  _not_  looking forward to him in a swimsuit."

Bellamy pulls a face. "Thanks for that image." He starts zooming the camera. "Anything you did like?"

"Wells, obviously. The two at the beginning looked sweet, but not in a  _marry me for America!_  way. And, um, Finn was… cute."

Bellamy scratches a place behind his ear as he focuses the camera. "Yeah? 

“Whatever, let's start this thing."

 

She works through her scripted first impressions of the bachelors (Bellamy actually has to stop rolling for a minute because they both laugh so hard at her having to describe Cage Wallace as a  _silver fox_ , because seriously, _what_?) and initial thoughts about the competition, and then she has to go meet with Abby while Bellamy interviews the contestants.

"You'll have to award the first impression rose in a minute," says Abby, "you're going to give it to Lincoln."

"Yessir." Clarke rolls her eyes, though, alright, it makes sense- Lincoln definitely cut the most imposing figure.

She gives him the rose, she makes a brief speech to the bachelors, and then, finally, she goes back to the hotel.

 - - -

Clarke is staying in the same hotel as the crew, so it's not exactly a surprise to run into Bellamy by the elevators, but still.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," he answers, and then, after a beat, "wanna hear dirt about all the bachelors?"

" _Fuck_  yeah."

They end up in Clarke's room— well, since she has the penthouse suite, they end up in her _lounge_ , sprawled against the couches and raiding the mini fridge— whilst Bellamy dishes exactly what he discovered about each candidate.

"They talk between takes," he explains. "So yeah, pretty much all of them except Wells are in it for money."

"Surprise, surprise."

"And Finn wants to be an actor, so this is his exposure, I guess. Monty is definitely gay, and I'm pretty sure the show is just funding Jasper's weed habit. Cage is the creepiest guy I have ever encountered and referred to you as  _sultry_  in the interview…”

"Ew!"

"and Lincoln's cousin sent in his audition for the show to screw with him and he just kinda went with it."

Clarke has dissolved into laughter by the end of it, overcome by the _bullshit_ of it all.

"Wait, wait, wait," she says, "does this mean you pass on everything _I_ say between takes to them?"

Bellamy just chucks an m&m at her, and laughs.

\- - -

Her first one-on-one date is with Monty, and it's actually kind of fun. They get sent paint balling, and they get pretty good at it. Off-camera, Monty confirms that he is, in fact, gay, but that he really will do _anything_ to pay off his student loan.

She groans sympathetically. "Same reason I'm here, pretty much."

"Life sucks," agrees Monty, "let's go shoot more paint at each other."

Even the mandatory kiss at the end isn't too bad, largely because they both find the thing so ridiculous that the awkwardness is kind of allayed, and Clarke goes home in a slightly better mood.

The next date is square-dancing with a guy named Nyko, which is weird, then skydiving with Dax, which is awkward, and then she finds out she's scheduled for a romantic boat ride with _Cage_.

"Help me," she whines at Bellamy. Their late-night trash-talking sessions have become more or less routine, and she is sat on the floor of her lounge, face in her hands, "I have to spend a day with the  _silver fox_."

Bellamy winces sympathetically. "Jesus. Pack your pepper spray."

She bangs her head against Bellamy's arm. If he finds the contact unusual, he doesn't say anything. "Seriously, throw me a bone here!”

He just mutters his sympathies, and she thinks no more of it, until the next day.

See the problem with Cage is that he's one of the contestants that likes to interact with her even  _off_ -camera. With someone like Monty, this is fine. And with the bad dates, like the one with Nyko, it's okay as long as they don't talk to each other when they're not being filmed. 

 But Cage, oh no, _Cage_ is unfettered in his creepiness. He doesn't move apart from her on the boat when Bellamy calls cut, and just keeps his arm around her. 

"I'm very much enjoying this," he says with the flat smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Mmhmm." She squirms away from his arm, and he thankfully doesn't readjust to shift closer, but he seems to think that his chances of winning are better if he keeps "oozing charm," so he just sort of smiles at her until Bellamy calls him for an interview.

When they're done, he reaches her about ten second before Cage does. "Just a heads up," he says, leaning to hiss in her ear, “it's the kiss thing next, so brace yourself."

Clarke grimaces but nods, and Bellamy pulls away to get in position.

"You know, they're just such an...an  _elegance_ about you," says Clarke, hoping it sounds more like she's grasping for the right words rather than choking on the truly  _ugh_  script, "and I've really enjoyed that. So, Cage... will you accept this rose?"

"I'd be honoured," says Cage, plucking it from her hand, the other hand still running over Clarke's fingers (again,  _ugh_ ), and he leans in to kiss her.

She squeezes her eyes shut, her lips brush his, and-

"Cut!"

She springs backwards. Cage looks at Bellamy, incredulous.

Bellamy looks back, placid. "We're spinning the narrative that you're elegant. I'm just keeping things tasteful."

"I owe you forever," she tells Bellamy that evening, "like,  _forever_."

He looks amused. "You may be a pain in my ass, Princess, but nobody deserves tonsil hockey with _Cage Wallace_." He bumps her shoulder as she shudders.

"Well, I promise that should you ever find yourself about to make out with Cage Wallace, I will intervene." 

"Thanks a million."

\- - -

The first rose ceremony is somewhat uneventful. Nyko goes home— looking entirely unconcerned, by the way— and she acts vaguely regretful for the camera, and then they all go home. 

 She waits around in her lounge for a while for Bellamy to show up like he usually does. He doesn't show. Which is— well, it's not like they're really friends. Aside from this nightly meet-up thing, they don't hang out all that much. They talk during interviews, and it's no longer hostile, but that's work, so it's not like there's any expectation for him to show up. There's no reason to be disappointed when he doesn't. And she's not. She's just… confused. He could have at least _texted_. Which would be weird given they've never texted before and there's no obligation for him to, but _still_.

Anyway, Clarke is resolutely unbothered by this, so she just lolls around for a while, occasionally texting Harper, and then goes to sleep, not at all wondering why Bellamy didn't show up. 

So of course the first thing she does when she sees him the next day is say, "where were you off to last night?" all fake casual.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry." He rakes a hand through his hair, and Clarke suddenly feels uncomfortable and kind of wants to drop off the face of the Earth.

"Nah, it's no big deal, there's no pressure, I was just…surprised." She turns to go, and almost has a heart attack when he grabs her wrist. He drops it quickly when she turns around.

"Um, no, I would have come, but, uh..." he glances round, oddly nervous, "my sister showed up."

"Oh," she says, "Octavia, right?"

He looks surprised, like he didn't expect her to remember. "Yeah. It was an unexpected trip, but, ah... family, y'know?"

"Well, mine suck, but, yes, theoretically, I get it."

He smiles at her, just as a girl with brown hair and blue eyes bounds over, slinging an arm around him. "Hey, Bell, is this the Bachelorette?"

"O, she _can_ hear you, you know."

Octavia looks about Clarke's age, maybe a year or so younger. There's not much resemblance between her and Bellamy, but there's a similarity to their mannerisms, though Octavia seems naturally more exuberant than her brother. She grins at Clarke, and Clarke likes her on sight.

"That would be me," she says, shaking her hand, laughing when Octavia yanks her in for a hug instead, "you must be Octavia?"

"I also go by the  _cooler_  Blake, but Octavia works just fine."

Bellamy scruffs up her hair and rolls his eyes. "Beat it, O," he says, "we've got work to do."

Octavia holds her hands up in mock-defeat, wandering off somewhere, and Bellamy grins sheepishly at Clarke. 

"She's great," says Clarke.

"Yeah," he glances after her, smiling fondly. Then, clearing his throat, he adds, "also, um, she's kinda crashing in my hotel room for a couple of days, but, if you could like, not mention that to your mom or anyone... it's not strictly okay with the producer's contract..."

"Hey," Clarke squeezes his hand on an impulse; it's warm and firm, "my lips are sealed."

He nods, and they get to filming.

 - - -

The two-on-one date has got to be one of the weirdest aspects of the show, and that's saying a lot. If general society was progressive enough to accept polyamory as a thing, it probably wouldn't be, but given that both general society, and, to be fair, Clarke, is monogamous, it's pretty weird. It shouldn't be that unpleasant— it's her first date on the show with Wells, which should be a relief, and her first with Finn, whom she doesn't know too well but still seems cute. The show is trying to spin a narrative in which Finn and Wells are rivals, but they seem to get on fine in real life, so she's not actually dreading it.

 

"Coming from you, that's practically jumping off the walls in excitement," remarks Bellamy, raising his eyebrows at her. They're sharing a ride to the date venue, mainly so Bellamy can film some in-transit interviews, but it's nice having him there.

"I'm probably just really relieved they didn't go through with the Cage/Murphy double date." Even Abigail Griffin had drawn the line at sending her own child on that date, just for the sake of good television.

"It'll be fun for you to hang out with Wells, right?" Bellamy says. He has, Clarke thanks her lucky stars again, been great about keeping the fact that she and Wells know each other quiet.

"Yeah. And Finn seems cool."

Bellamy nods but says nothing.

The date is a picnic in a field, and it actually is sort of fun. Wells and Finn are made to kind of act up in front of the camera— they're pitching Finn as a "bad boy" and Wells as the "nice guy" which, in Clarke's opinion is very YA-tropey, but you know, whatever— and Clarke gets one-on-one time with each of them.

"Wow," Wells says, slinging an arm around her as Bellamy yells cut for one of their private conversations, "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

"Right?" she grins at him. "I'm glad you're here. You saved me from being, as Bellamy put it, the meat in the greasiest date sandwich of all time."

Wells shudders. "That guy's got a way with words. But yeah, you dodged a bullet there." 

 She nods, twining her fingers through the grass.

"So, how's this bride sale coming along otherwise?"

She shrugs. "Well the whole principle is still obviously gross and I feel like I need to take four showers everyday. But it's not  _heinous_. It's weird and stuff, but most people are so chill about it, it's like acting."

Wells nods. "Well, that's good." He waggles his eyebrows at her. "Think you'll find _the man_ to complete you?"

Clarke chucks a fistful of grass at him.

"Hey, Wells, look tense, Finn's coming." Bellamy has jumped up from his phone back to manning the camera, and they fall back into their onscreen faces.

Finn and Wells exchanged some thinly-veiled threats, and then Finn slides down next to Clarke, taking her hand straight away. 

"Hey," he says. 

"Hey." She smiles at him. 

"You look so beautiful today. You always do, but... I guess the sunlight accentuates it." He leans closer and sort of...sniffs her hair?

"Um, thanks."

Bellamy coughs, and she glances at him. 

"Script" he mouths.

"So, Finn... I feel like I don't really know you. What's your story?"

He tosses his head to remove the hair from his face, and pulls Clarke's hand up to press to his mouth. ”I was in love once before," he says, "with this girl I knew from way back. And we broke up recently, and it was..." he shakes his head at the sky, "it was really hard. And I thought I had closed myself off to love, but now..." he brushes a strand of hair from her face, "sitting here with you, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time."

He leans into kiss her, and it's pleasant, unobtrusive, far nicer than that time she had to kiss Jasper— poor kid, really _was_ inept and way out of his depth— but not, like,  _The Notebook_ , fireworks, or anything.

Finn gets the rose for the day, Wells pretends to get mad, and they all pile into their various cabs.

"What'd you think?" she asks Bellamy.

"Of what?" he has his glasses on again today, and they're slightly askew because he's leaning against the window and they're being pushed up his face. Clarke resists the urge to reach out and fix them, to smooth out his hair. 

"My hot dates." She waggles her fingers and grins at him.

He shoots her a small smile. "Just dandy. Although," he rubs his Adam's apple with his finger for a second, "they need to work on their sob stories."

"What, tragic break-up not doing it for you?" she teases.

"It wasn't tragic, it was just a break-up. And yeah, it was pretty much the usual attempt to give the privileged white boy a past tragedy." He's saying it jokingly, but there's an edge to his voice that Clarke hasn't heard before.

 She can't really work out how to ask him about it, so instead she just bumps his knee with hers and gives him a soft, questioning look. 

He sighs. "My mom was shit at being a mom. My dad died when I was two, O's dad took off when I was six, just before she was born, and I guess our mom just kinda _snapped_. She tried, but mostly, I was the one sorting everything out, and then she died when I was eighteen so instead of going to college, I got full custody of a twelve-year-old."

"Jesus," Clarke says, "I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "It turned out fine. I mean, it was tough. I was working a couple of jobs, running a house," he scrunches up his nose so all his freckles bunch together and it does something odd to Clarke's chest, "paying taxes." He drums absently on the car seat with his fingers. "It got better when she finished high school. O got a full ride at Berkeley," he says, and his voice is unmistakably, fiercely, bursting with pride, "and I finally did go to college."

"That's amazing, Bellamy. Where'd you go?"

"UCLA. I took film studies," he nods at the camera. "What about you?"

It seems wrong to transition back to her after hearing all that, but she doubts Bellamy wants to dwell. "I started off at Cornell doing pre-med. Hated every second, so I dropped out after a year, and went to Parsons for Fine Arts instead. At which point my mother cut me off, thus allowing her to financially blackmail me into this."

He has his eyebrows raised. "Wouldn't your mother be more supportive of an arts education, given that she's, you know, a TV producer?"

"You'd think. But no, there's apparently no prestige in a "starving artist." She just had me on the Med School track forever, and I derailed her plans, so..." she shrugs. 

"My dad was always the supportive one."

Bellamy's expression goes tender. " _Was_?'

She raises her fist. "Dead dads club."

Bellamy bumps it, laughing, but sobers up. "Hey, I'm sorry."

She sighs. “It’s…don't be. I mean, you know how it is."

"Well, I never knew my Dad, or anything about him other than the fact he was Filipino. You knew your dad, you could miss him."

"True. But I still have a rich mother, and I never gained custody of a kid at age eighteen."

"What is this, the misery-lympics?"

 - - -

The girl storms in during one of the cocktail parties, and at first, Clarke only notices her because Bellamy slams the camera shut and straightens, looking confused. Bellamy never stops shooting without calling cut, and judging by his expression, this visitor is unplanned. She's gorgeous, totally the kind of girl Clarke might crush on if she didn't look so fucking murderous. 

 "Raven?" It's Finn, who sort of stumbles forward, disbelieving. 

 "Thanks for remembering, asshole," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"What...what are you doing here?" 

 "Funny you should ask," she says, "I came here to ask you the same fucking question!"

 "I can explain," he says, twisting his hands together in a manner that suggests he really can't. 

 "Yes, Finn," interjects Clarke, "please explain.” Wells sidles closer to her, and Clarke guesses this is because he is anxious about her needling the angry girl, Raven. She appreciates that kind of support in a friendship, though she's not sure Wells is going to be much help if she's attacked.

 "Clarke, uh," Finn rubs the back of his neck, “this…this is my girlfriend, Raven Reyes."

 "What the hell?" yells Clarke, "you have a  _girlfriend_?"

 " _Had_ ," snaps Raven, "I just want to make it abundantly clear that I am now definitely an  _ex_ -girlfriend."

 "No, Raven, come on... I did this for us!"

 She crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. "You went on a dating show without telling me, for  _us_? Oh, this I _have_ to hear."

 "I wanted acting exposure..." he mumbles, "and the pay is good..."

 "You're fucking disgusting, Collins," says Clarke, "you're also fired."

 "Clarke," it's Kane, speaking up, "I don't think—"

 "Do  _not_  fight me on this, Marcus," she rounds on him, "this isn't a stupid TV thing, okay?"

 Marcus looks put out, but, to his credit, says nothing.

Finn's eyes dart around the room, from Raven—whose eyes glitter with rage— to Clarke, to the others. Bellamy holds the door open, and Finn slinks out. An awkward silence settles on the room.

 

"Clarke," Kane says, "we have to get him back. We have to round out his storyline on the show. We have to—" 

 Raven gives a short, coarse bark of laughter. "Wow. _Wow_ , this situation is fucked up for more people than I'd realised."

 "Hey," Clarke steps towards her, knotting her hands together, slightly uncomfortable. The girl looks like she might take her down in a fight, and Clarke really doesn't want it to come to that. "I'm... I'm really sorry about that. I had no idea, and if I had, I swear I wouldn't have let him on the show—"

 "S'okay," Raven stops her, "I get it. It's just..." she massages her temple, "ah, _fuck_ , it's just, Finn was my best friend since I was a kid, and—" she stops again, suddenly conscious of the crowd of people around her. Her expression hardens. "Well," she says after a beat, "is this a cocktail party? Can I get a drink around here?"

 Clarke has to yell at Kane some more, and Bellamy eventually pacifies him by agreeing to hunt down Finn for some hasty exit interviews. She shoots him a grateful smile as he leaves— she's not really sure how to do this much damage control on her own.

 Wells jogs over to her. "Jesus," he says, "are you okay?"

Clarke sighs. "I'm fine. It sucks, but I'm fine. Just... really,  _really_  pissed. I can't believe anyone would _do_ that!"

 Wells looks over at Raven, brow furrowed. "Jackass," he mutters. "Should we call her over?"

 They do, and, as it turns out, Raven is really cool. She opens up to Clarke after she surmises Clarke's hatred for the show as a whole, and she seems to get on fine with Wells too.

 "What I want to know is," says Wells, "how did you actually get in here? I thought this was a closed set."

 Raven smirks. "I just didn't stop to ask for permission."

Bellamy comes back then, and doesn't say anything, just nods at Clarke as if to say it's all good, and Raven gets pulled off to the side and they resume filming. It all feels weirdly normal (apart from the sequence where Kane decides she has to make out with Jasper. Bellamy has to keep readjusting the camera because he's laughing so hard, and Clarke can't really tell whether she or Jasper is more uncomfortable with the situation).

It's a relief to get back to the hotel, and Clarke is all but ready to collapse when there's a knocking on her room door. She opens it without checking, fairly certain it's Bellamy, but is surprised to see the other Blake there.

 "Octavia!" Clarke blinks. "Hey. What's up?"

"Do you mind if I hang out here for a while?" Octavia rolls her eyes. "Some hot chick showed up in our room and I don't need to know what kind of action my brother's getting."

Clarke blinks again. "Oh.  _Oh_." She ignores the inexplicable heavy clenching in her stomach. "Um. Who's the chick?"

Octavia shrugs. "Some girl named Raven. Like I said, she was hot, so, y'know,  _Go Bell!_ or whatever but again, I really want to  _not_  be there."

 "Yeah, yeah of course, of course." Clarke ushers her in absently, still a little...dazed? Confused? _Whatever_.

 Octavia looks hard at her. "Huh," she says, and then starts cackling. 

 " _What_?" Clarke bristles. 

 Octavia throws an arm around her shoulder, friendly. "Nothing," she says, grinning, "nothing at all."

\---

She doesn't know how exactly Raven manages to talk her way onto the sound crew, but she does, and Clarke's glad. Raven's fun to be around, and makes being on set better. Also, whatever happened between her and Bellamy the first night she showed up has apparently not developed into a recurring thing, or any kind of relationship beyond friendly teasing. Clarke doesn't think this should elevate her own mood for any reason, but it somehow does.

And there are other things too- the week goes pretty well. She has a one-on-one date with Lincoln, who is a genuinely nice guy, and they talk about art off-camera. Clarke knows for a fact that Octavia, who has taken to hanging around the set because nobody can really be asked to stop her, has a thing for him, and she is able to confirm that Lincoln is a great kisser.

"And that's just on camera, in a fake situation."

Octavia grins. "Awesome." They high five.

 Bellamy groans. "Seriously, you couldn't try set her up with one of the guys that _couldn't_ take me in a fight?" he says to Clarke. "Why not go with Jasper? I could scare the _shit_ out of Jasper."

"Oh, _relax_ ," says Clarke, grinning and nudging his shoulder. "He's ABC-approved."

"So was _Cage Wallace_."

"Hey, at least they let me send him home!”

Bellamy snorts. "Okay, O, go flirt with one of the guys here vying for Clarke's hand in marriage—" he smirks at Clarke's glower over the camera- "we've gotta prepare for Clarke's _hot date_."

Clarke groans, burying her face in Bellamy's shoulder. Her one-on-one date for tonight is with John Murphy, so this should be _fun_.

Bellamy squeezes her shoulder. "Up you get, soldier." 

 

The date is for ballroom dancing classes, and the only silver lining is that that seems to annoy Murphy as much as it does her. The whole time they're not filming, they're trash talking each other, flipping each other off, and threatening each other, until Bellamy eventually calls Clarke for an interview.

"Just kidding," he says, "we already did all your questions. But you looked like you could use a break."

"God, you're a _life-saver_ ," she says, slumping against the wall, "I was about to kill someone. How do we even come across on camera?" 

Bellamy grins. "Ah, don't worry about it. Miller's a genius editor. Besides," he pokes her in the arm, "isn't it universally acknowledged that hatred is really just suppressed sexual tension?"

Clarke groans again. "If Kane makes me snog Murphy, I will  _kill_ someone."

Unfortunately, the studio seems to agree with Bellamy, and they do end up trying to pursue some sexually tense bad-boy angle with Murphy.

 

"This is the worst," she tells Bellamy and Raven at the bar on the night after a double elimination— Jasper and Monty, whom she was actually kinda bummed about losing, but hey, at least Monty could stop pretending to be into a girl— "why did they have to go with _Murphy_? What's with this whole  _hatred equals sexual tension_ thing? What happened to plain, old-fashioned, _non_ -sexual hatred?

 "This is  _The Bachelorette_ ," Raven teases, "give the people a story here!”

 "If this ends with Murphy proposing to me, I'm gonna do bleach shots," Clarke warns.

 Bellamy just slings an arm around her, all boyish affection. "Duly noted. Now, here's a normal shot to tide you over till then."

\- - -

“ _Rome_?” Octavia shrieks, “you get to go to _Rome_? No fair!”

“Oh _please_ ,” says Clarke, kicking her shin, “you’re glad we’ll all be gone so you can hang out with Lincoln!”

Octavia grins wolfishly. Lincoln got sent home last week, and Clarke can’t say she wasn’t going to miss him a little. Still, it meant he and Octavia could finally go on a date, so more power to them.

“Remember what we said about _not_ encouraging my baby sister to you out with big scary dudes when I’m out of the country?” Bellamy grumbles.

“Lincoln’s not remotely scary and you know it, Bellamy,” says Clarke, rolling her eyes at him.

Bellamy says nothing, and Octavia just laughs, kisses his cheek and leaves. 

Bellamy and Clarke are stretched out across the floor. The advantage of being the Bachelorette is that production assistants did Clarke’s packing for her, so she got to help Bellamy with _his_ , and now they’re both done. She squints at him sidelong.

“Am I…. am I going crazy or do you actually look _excited_?”

She expects him to snort and dismiss her, so she is taken completely off guard when he turns over and throws her this mile-wide grin, and her breath catches in her throat.

“It’s Rome, Clarke, _Rome_! You know the new city is built almost entirely on top of the ancient one? So wherever you go, there are all these ruins, and it's insane because it’s been the Italian capital for _centuries_. And I bet we can see the Palatino Hill while we’re there, which is where…” he tails off, glancing at her. “ _What_?”

“Oh my god,” she says, beaming “you’re a _nerd_! A classic, dorky, hyperactive history nerd!”

He sniffs. “I believe the correct term is history _buff_.” He grins at her. “On account of my incredibly ripped musculature.”

“Semantics,” she says, shoving him. She doesn’t bother denying the “ripped” part, though, because, well.

He actually blushes slightly. “I just. I really like Classics, okay?”

He looks so defensive and flustered she can’t help but peck him on the cheek, and then, yeah, then he looks _really_ flustered. “Classics huh?”

“My mom used to read me _The Illiad_ ,” he says softly. “It was one of the only things she did with me. Anyway, I loved it, and I got hooked onto the mythology, and it kind of just…grew from there.” He looks at her almost shyly, like revealing this is about the most embarrassing thing he could do.

She looks at him, aware— not for the first time— of how much his freckles look like constellations. She wonders if knows, if he realises that the Gods and Heroes he can probably pick out in the sky are mapped across his face.

“Can I draw you?” the words are out because she can stop them. 

“Huh?”

“You heard the part where I quote-unquote _gave up my future to go to art school_ right? I draw. So can I draw you?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Um. Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

She retrieves her sketchpad and pencils and settles herself on the couch to examine him 

“Draw me like one of your French girls,” he jokes.

She snorts. “Hold still.”

It’s not until the first impossibly light pencil stroke brushes the page that she realises how _much_ she’s wanted to draw him. The contours of his face, solid and soft all at once. The hands, large and calloused, draped across his stomach.The inky mass of curls flopping over his head, ridiculously fun to try to encapsulate on paper. The freckles starring his nose and cheeks. The eyes, dark and melting, fringed with feathery lashes, are the hardest to get right— even when he’s holding perfectly still, they seem more _alive_ some how, and it’s hard to pin them down on paper.

She doesn’t know how long she’s sketched him for before she’s satisfied, and she feels a little guilty when she sees how stiff he is when she finally lets him move.

“So,” he says, “can I see it?” 

She feels bashful somehow. Objectively, she knows it’s _good_ , but it’s also of _him_ , and… 

“Um. Yeah. Yeah. It’s like a first draft type of thing, and I’ll probably go over it with ink later or—”

He pries the sketchbook gently from her hands and looks down at the picture. 

“I don’t think all the proportions are exactly right,” she says, “though the shading’s not half bad—”

“Clarke.”

“I wasn’t sure whether to smudge it over there or not, but the gradient of the—”

“ _Clarke_.” He’s smiling at her, impossibly fond, when she stops. “It’s amazing. Seriously. This is…” he swallows, “this is incredible.”

“Oh.” She feels her face crack into the dumbest grin. “Thanks.” And then, because she has zero shame at two in the morning, “I had a great muse.”

“Clarke Griffin, are you talking mythology to me?”

She waggles her eyebrows, grinning. He laughs, returning the sketchbook, giving her a squeeze round the shoulders, saying goodnight, and leaving.

Clarke stares at the door after he leaves. She stares at the sketch for about fifteen minutes after that.

Oh, she is _so_ screwed.

“ _Dammit_ ,” she groans, faceplanting into a pillow. 

 

\- - -

 

The final two bachelors— Wells and Murphy— are only being flown out to Italy two days later, so Clarke gets to go ahead with the rest of the crew, and she’s excited to be honest. The production company has booked all the flight tickets, and she gets to sit next to Bellamy, which is both great— it’s Bellamy!— and terrible because, well, she is ninety percent sure she has a crush on him. Which would be _heinously_ inconvenient, given the circumstances. And being sat in extremely close proximity to him for a thirteen-and-a-half hour flight doesn’t seem like the best way to deal with that. 

“You need help with that?”  

Bellamy’s question cuts through her reverie as she realises she’s spaced out instead of stowing her suitcase.

“Nah, I got it.” She hefts the bag over her head, having to stretch up on her toes to shove it into the overhead compartment. “Window or aisle?” she asks, nodding at the two seats.

Bellamy shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

Eventually, they settle in with Clarke at the window and Bellamy in the aisle. As the plane finally starts moving, Clarke glances at Bellamy, and sees his jaw clenched and his fingers trembling slightly.

“Hey,” she nudges him, “you okay?”

“Yep.” A muscle in his cheek twitches.

She grins in spite of herself. “Bellamy…are you scared of take-off?”

Bellamy scowls at her. 

She softens her expression. “ _Bell_.”

He sighs, closing his eyes. “I’d never even been on a flight until after I finished film school. I still get freaked out by take-off. And landing. And turbulence. And—” a single eye opens, and he smiles ruefully at her, “flying in general.”

She reaches out and covers his hand with hers. He shifts his and for a minute she panics and thinks he’s pulling it away, but he just turns it round an entwines their fingers. She squeezes his hand gently, and he squeezes back. 

He only finally lets go after the seatbelt sign comes on, and yeah, it’s a definite downgrade.

“Hey,” Bellamy leans over so close that his breath stirs her hair and she hopes he can’t see her shiver, “wanna watch a movie?”

They choose a political thriller and try to start it at the exact same time so that their monitors play the films simultaneously. Eventually, Clarke keeps her headphones plugged in but just pushes up the armrest, rests her head on Bellamy’s shoulder, and watches his screen.

She wakes up like that four hours later, slightly cramped but warm against his neck. His head rests on hers, fast asleep. 

“Mom?” 

Abby is standing above her, wearing an expression she can’t quite place. “I just came to wake you up— the dinner trolley’s coming around.” Her eyes flicker to Bellamy, but she just walks back to her own seat.

“Bell. Hey. Bellamy.” Clarke nudges him gently, barely willing to wake him.

He stirs against her. “Mmhmm?”

“Food.”

He smiles blearily. “I’m touched you know where my priorities lie.”

The meal is expectedly terrible, and they end up devising a game in which they see how much pepper they can consume with each spoonful of mashed potatoes. 

“Oh god,” Clarke coughs. “That’s awful. _Yeuck_!”

Bellamy laughs. “Oh come on, it was _not_ that bad.”

Clarke scrunches up her nose. And then almost has a heart attack when Bellamy ducks forward and _kisses_ it.

“Um.” He looks embarrassed. “Sorry.”

She hopes he can’t see the flush creeping up her neck. “No. No, it’s cool.”

He smiles kind of shyly, raking a hand through his hair. “You just looked adorable. You looked like a disgruntled golden retriever.”

“Seriously?” she jokes, desperate to diffuse the tension that’s making her want to surge up and _really_ kiss him, and move past the fact that her crush— ugh, _crush_ — just compared her to a dog, “golden retriever? That’s the laziest canine comparison there is for a blonde.”

“I’m sorry, matching you up to your dog soul-sister is more O’s forte.”

“You disappoint me, Bellamy Blake.”

 

\- - -

 

Wells leans in close to her, turning his face into her hair. “Okay Griffin,” he whispers, “I see you.”

“I should hope so,” she hisses back, “you’re inhaling me.”

He pinches her arm where the camera can’t see it. “You know what I mean. I see _through_ you.”

“What, because my hair is—”

“You like Bellamy!”

“ _Shhh!_ ” Clarke slams against him, hoping it plays off as cute, “shut up! No, I don’t”

“Uh huh. That was definitely the response of someone who isn’t concealing a big fat crush.”

“What is this, eight grade?” 

“Cut!” 

Clarke leaps about a foot in the air when Bellamy yells, and shoots Wells a glare. Wells just leans over and keeps talking, voice low.  

“I know you, Clarke, and you’re clearly into him!” 

“Am not!”

He crosses his arms. “Every time you think he isn’t looking, you fucking _gaze_ at him. Like, full-on, _wherefore art thou Romeo?_ , I-wanna-have-your-babies, you-hung-the-moon-oh-light-of-my-life _gaze_ at him.”

“I think the show is getting to your head.” She sneaks a glance at Bellamy. “I do _not_ gaze. Do I?”

Wells shakes his head at her. “And you do that thing you do, when you’re trying to be casual with someone so you use like weird physical affection—”

“I don’t do that!”

“But because you _love_ him, you can’t help yourself and end up making it weird—”

“This is bull—”

“Clarke, you caressed his bicep. _Caressed_ it.”

Clarke splutters. Yesterday, she’d given Bellamy a joking punch in the arm— as you do— and she may have let her knuckles trail down the muscle before stepping away. “That was just friendly.” 

“My _ass_ it was friendly! Besides, that doesn’t explain the way you talk about him! Bellamy this, Bellamy said, Bellamy’s so great, I’d hit that!”

“I HAVE NEVER SAID THAT!” she explodes and then regrets it immediately because Wells falls over cackling, and Bellamy looks up from the camera. 

“Never said what, Clarke?” he asks, his grin blinding from across the field.

“That Channing Tatum is attractive,” supplies Wells, wheezing from laughter.

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Okay then. Can we film the last of this steaming hot date now?” 

Clarke gets back into Bachelorette mode as best she can, and offers Wells the key to the dubiously named “Enchanted Suite.”

Bellamy, Wells, and Clarke make their way to the hotel. The suite has an adjoining door to a smaller room in which Bellamy will sleep, to make filming easier, and Wells and Clarke get a massive room that overlooks the Colosseum. 

“We actually only have to film in here for a little while,” says Bellamy dumping his bags, “get you guys looking all lovey-dovey and stuff. Then you’re free till the evening.” 

Wells smirks. “Well okay then.” And with that, he bends to sweep Clarke up bridal style. 

“ _Wells_!” she laughs, pummeling him with her fists before looping her arms around his neck. 

Bellamy adjusts the camera. He nods towards the bedroom door without actually making eye contact with either of them. 

Wells dumps Clarke on the bed and makes a show of flopping next to her and grinning at her with a truly sickeningly sappy expression. 

“Wow,” he says, “I can’t believe we’re finally here.” 

“Yeah, isn’t it amazing?” Clarke leans up to kiss him. She’s had to kiss Wells several times during the show, and it doesn’t feel any less pseudo-incestuous each time, but it’s still preferable to kissing any other contestant. 

“I’m just so in love with you,” Wells says, and Clarke knows the camera can’t pick up the glimmer of wry amusement in his eyes. 

The sweet talking and sappiness continue for about an hour while Bellamy films. 

“Okay, we’re done,” he says and then, very abruptly, just _leaves_. 

“What the hell?” Clarke wonders at the closed door he left behind him.

Wells grins. “Thought so." 

Clarke glowers at him. “Thought what?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Jealousy thy name is Bellamy.” 

She flushes furiously. “Cut the crap Jaha. You know Bellamy, he’s like a grumpy old man, he’s probably just in a mood—” 

“A mood called jealousy.” 

“Or maybe I did something to piss him off—” 

“Like acting too in love with yours truly.” 

“Or maybe I’m just way overthinking this? It’s not like he needs to stay here, he could be—” 

Wells slams a pillow into her face, replacing her babbling with a look of pure outrage. “What was _that_ for?” 

“Clarke, you’re into him, and you’ve successfully made him jealous, stop talking and celebrate!”

“What? That makes no sense! This isn’t even _real_ , he knows that! And I’m not into him. Stop grinning at me! Oh my god Wells, would you just— _he doesn’t like me_!” 

It comes out in an explosion and Wells blinks. Before the fucking grin comes back. “So that’s it. That’s why you won’t admit your pathetically obvious crush. You think it’s unreciprocated so you just want to waste away pining.” 

Clarke deflates like a sad balloon. Lying to Wells seems pointless when he sees so clearly through her. “Yeah, fine, I may have a slight—” she coughs, “massive crush on him, but it’s irrelevant because it’s unprofessional and there’s no place for it here and I’m supposed to be trying to get engaged to either you or some creepy dude and Bellamy doesn’t like me like that anyway.” 

Wells still looks like he’s trying not to laugh, but he yanks her in for a hug. “Oh. Oh wow, you are _so_ oblivious.” 

“Shuddup.”

 

 - - -

 

Bellamy knocks on the door at six in the morning (“Monster” mutters Wells sulkily) and has to practically drag Wells and Clarke out of bed to get their hair-and-makeup done. Before arranging them in the bed again. 

“I want the record to show that I resent the attempts to make it look like we were doing-the-do last night,” Wells says, eyeing the artfully rumpled sheets around him. 

“What did we say about your dubious euphemism choices?” Clarke rolls her eyes at him.

“This is cute an all but can you start spouting sweet nothings now?” Bellamy says, shaking his head as he tweaks the tripod. 

And so they do, until Bellamy calls cut and Wells saunters off, waving cheerfully at them, and flashing Clarke a surreptitious thumbs up behind Bellamy’s back.  

“Hey,” Clarke says, hating the awkward feeling staining in the air. “I’ve got the rest of the day free— wanna hang out?” 

Bellamy gives her a look she can’t quite fathom, but then shrugs. “Sure,” he says. After a beat, he adds “I was planning to go sightseeing but—” 

“Sightseeing sounds great!” she says and tries to stop her heart from fluttering when he sees his downright joyful grin. 

“Great— mind if I hijack your shower?”

Clarke waves him in and almost chokes when he tugs his shirt off right in front of her. Apparently, he hears the strangled sound she makes, as he turns around to glance at her, hair ruffled and eyes wide. 

“Sorry,” he says, the picture of innocence. 

“S’okay,” Clarke says, recovering slightly and pointedly _not_ letting her eyes wander below his face, “I’ll just wait in there, and ah, give you some privacy…” she manages not to actually fall over as she makes her way into the small adjoining room where Bellamy slept. 

 _Okay_ , she thinks, _get a grip on yourself, Griffin_. After all, the most important thing is that she never wants to lose Bellamy as a friend. He’s too important. So she just needs to get this… inconvenience under control and not let it jeopardize her friendship with him, and everything will be fine. Besides, she doesn’t even want to know how complicated her situation with the show would get if anything were to happen between them. Which it wouldn’t. Obviously.

She shakes herself, pulls her hair into a messy bun and changes into shorts and a shirt. Sightseeing. It’s going to be fine.

“Hey,” Bellamy sticks his head through the door, droplets of water shimmering in his curls, “you ready?”

“Yep,” she jumps up, grabbing her purse, “let’s do this.”

 

 - - - 

 

“So basically Mussolini, like the dick he was, built the road straight _across_ the forum, like, straight through it! And it fucked everything up.”

“Twat,” says Clarke mildly, grinning sideways at Bellamy, who is alight with righteous indignation.

“This is no laughing matter,” he says, snorting, “just because you don’t appreciate this, you philistine.”

“You wound me,” she retorts, rolling her eyes.” They’re standing at the main forum and Bellamy is airing his woes about the dictator. It’s blisteringly hot, the city is awash in yellow light, and Clarke loves it. Bellamy’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Clarke feels herself growing more and more excited as they see more things. 

“It’s crazy,” she says as they pass a small ruin next to a church, “this stuff is everywhere! Like, there a ruins all over the city.”

Bellamy nods with the eagerness of a dog. “Modern Rome was basically built straight over the ancient city, so the two are completely intermingled.”

“I still can’t believe you’ve never been here before,” she says, gazing—- _damn you Wells_ — at him sideways, “you sound like you’ve been here your whole life.”

He rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head, trying to disguise his pleased smile. “I kind of have, in a way. I’ve read about it so much that it feels like a memory…” he tails off, embarrassed, but Clarke smiles.

“What does it feel like? Being here at last?”

There are stars in his eyes when he looks at her. “It’s…Jesus, Clarke, it’s the best anything’s ever felt. Like, do you ever do something and just think ‘ _yes,_ I could do this for the rest of my life?’ It’s like that.”

“I’m just sorry you only got to come here because of this dumb-ass show.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly, and then, ducking his head again, “you got to come too.”

Clarke doesn’t _actually_ keel over and die, but it’s close. She grins an ear-splitting grin, though, and bumps him with her shoulder.

He smiles, then clears his throat. “So, you up for the Colosseum?”

“Lead the way Spartacus.”

 

The whole day is pretty much perfect. Bellamy has an encyclopedic knowledge of gladiators and regales her with various stories about all the crazy shit that went on in the arena. They debate for a full fifteen minutes about which replica coin Clarke should buy from the gift shop, and Bellamy teases her about being a slave to consumerism. She manages to drag him to a couple of spots in the city that she’s seen in movies, including the Mouth of Truth.

“Apparently if a liar sticks their hand in there, it gets eaten,” she says, waggling her eyebrows at him.”

He sighs. “I have seen _Roman Holiday_ , you know.”

“Shh, stop killing my moment. Go on, try it.”

He obliges, and then Clarke does, and gleefully pulls Gregory Peck’s hand-eating prank, and Bellamy snorts in spite of himself, which she counts as a victory.

They stroll round the city some more, buying gelato (“This is so touristy,” Bellamy bemoans. “Shut up and eat your ice cream,” is her response”) and eating them on the Spanish Steps.

“Are you going to come back to Rome?” she asks him, “When the show’s done filming?” 

He nods, decisive. “Definitely. And I’m going to go to Athens. And Istanbul, and Crete." 

She laughs softly. “Holy shit, that’s a lot to pack in before the next season.”

He bites into his gelato cone, chewing an swallowing before replying. “This is going to be my last season on the show.”

She stares at him. “You’re going to quit?”

He nods, seeming more confident now. “Yeah. This was never what I wanted to do with my life anyway. But I’ve saved enough, I’ve gotten a shit ton of experience behind a camera, I’ve made contacts in the industry. I’m ready to do my own thing now.”

“And what’s your own thing going to be?”

He blushes slightly. “Documentaries. I want to travel around and make documentaries about classical civilizations. I got offered a job at this museum, where I get to make short films for them for their exhibits, and they have this insane classical collection, and, I mean, all the films would be small, to begin with, but I—” 

She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “That’s amazing Bellamy. Seriously, you’re going to kick ass!”

He smiles at her, huffing a laugh. “Thanks. I’m— I’m excited about it." 

“I kind of envy you, to be honest.” 

“Yeah?” He shifts so his whole torso faces her. There’s a bit of gelato smeared on his chin which she reaches out and wipes absently. 

“Yeah. I mean, you, you’ve made such an amazing job of your life. You raised your sister, you’ve done so well in your job, and now you’re going to literally live your dream—” 

“I feel like you’re overselling me here,” he interrupts, looking embarrassed, but she just tucks herself into his side and continues. 

“And I— and I’m not trying to be the whiny rich girl here, really— but, like. I started my life where most people wanna end up. Nice house, rich family, fancy schools. I went to an Ivy league college, I had my life set and secure the future. And then I had my obnoxious soul-searching crisis and threw it all away, and look at me now. I’m on a televised bride sale!” 

“Hey,” Bellamy squeezes her shoulder. “You’re brave. It’s brave to give that kind of security up, you get that right?” 

“Ah, yes, the fearless brave rich white girl, navigating the real world all on her ownsome. Give me a medal.” 

He doesn’t rise to the sarcasm, just kisses her hair lightly. “What do you want to do? When the show finishes?”

“What, other than marry—” 

“Hey don’t say who, no spoilers!” 

She rolls her eyes at him, before going back to the question. “Is it sad that I don’t know? I mean, I know to a degree. I want to work with art, I want to do cool stuff with it. But I spent so long thinking about my game-changing dropout decision I never really look ahead.” 

“What were you doing just before the show?” he asks. 

“Bits and pieces. I taught High School art for a while, but it didn’t stick. I moved down to California a couple months back, I got offered curatorship of a temporary exhibition at LACMA.” 

Bellamy grins at her. “You sound _so_ enthused about becoming a Cali girl.” He uses an awful, exaggerated LA accent that makes Clarke snort and cringe in unattractive unison. 

“No, no, LA is great, really. It’s just. It’s not _me_. I don’t feel like I fit.” 

Bellamy nods. “Hey, I get that. But seriously, you’ve done yourself proud Clarke. A decision like that takes guts.” 

She rests her head on his shoulder, smiling a little. “Thanks.”

 

 - - - 

 

They have to start heading back, because Clarke’s got her date with Murphy lined up this evening. She ignores the fact that they’re going crashing back to reality, ignores the fact that she’ll have to spend the night in a hotel room with Murphy, ignores everything except the fact that she’s wandering through the twilit streets of Rome with Bellamy, walking close enough to bump shoulders. 

“This was fun,” she says, smiling. 

He grins at her. “Yeah? You enjoyed my in-depth commentary of the city?” 

“I enjoyed the city in _spite_ of that,” she teases as they make their way through a narrow cobblestoned alleyway towards the main road, and he laughs.  

“I just wish we’d gotten to the Palatino Hill. It would have been a bit of a trek, but— _Jesus fucking Christ_!” he yells, surging forward to yank Clarke back from the opening of the alley, pulling her out of the way of a red Vespa that had to be going the same speed as a small airplane. 

Clarke feels the breath rush out of her, the wind from the bike still on her face and Bellamy’s grip tight on her arm. _Bellamy_. She glances up and feels her heart in her throat when she sees that he pulled her so that she’s now crowded against the wall, with him— still holding her wrist— standing so close that his breath fans warm across her face.  

His eyes are blown wide with panic, flitting nervously over her face. “Jesus. _Jesus_. You okay?” 

She nods wordlessly. 

“Asshole,” he scowls, glancing over his shoulder at where the Vespa passed. His fingers are still circled round her wrist. 

“Thanks,” she croaks. 

He glances back at her. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says.  

He’s standing _so_ close. “Oops.”

He snorts, tipping his head forward as he does so so that his curls brush her forehead. “I’ll say.” 

And then, at the same moment, they glance at each other, blue eyes into brown, ocean into mountain. She’s suddenly very aware of how warm he is— the stones of the wall are cold where they dig into her back, but she scarcely notices because he’s radiating so much body heat so close. She swallows, and she swears he can feel her pulse racing.

It would be so easy, _so_ easy, to tip her head just slightly, and close the microscopic distance between them. So easy, so stupid. But her head is having a hard time working, and then, then it happens. Just for a second, a single, infinitesimal second, Bellamy’s eyes dart down to her lips. It’s only a moment, and if they weren’t so close, if she wasn’t so aware of him, she might have missed it. But she didn’t. In that single fleeting glance she’s seen it, all the confirmation she needs, the adrenaline rush of knowledge that— that he wants her too. Maybe not the way she wants him, maybe not for anything more than a quick hookup in an alleyway, but he _wanted_ her. 

She knows, in her head then, that she is going to do it. That she’s going to lean up and loop her arms around his neck and tug him down and— 

 _Bzzz_! They jump at the hum of Bellamy’s phone vibrating in his back pocket. He blinks for a moment, startled, licking his lips, before reaching back and checking his phone. “Ah, shit,” he says, wiping his face with his hand, “it’s my reminder. About getting you back. We should. We should probably…” 

“Yeah,” Clarke nods, a little too vigorously, trying to shake her head clear, “we should go.” 

They make their way to the café where she’s meeting Murphy in a charged silence, where every wordless moment seems deafening.

Clarke is almost grateful when Murphy gets there and filming starts, for the buffer, but it doesn’t help much. She feels hazy and unfocused, and suddenly very conscious of Bellamy’s gaze on her, which is stupid, because he’s the cameraman, so, of _course,_ he’s looking at her. Still, after whatever it was that happened— or, as it seemed, _didn’t_ happen— in the alley, she’s more conscious of him, like a physical presence on her body. 

 _Stop it!_ she tells herself, gritting her teeth, and trying desperately to focus on whatever Murphy is saying.

 

 - - -

 

“Wow, this is beautiful,” Clarke says, leading Murphy into the suite by the hand. 

“Not as beautiful as you,” he answers, kissing her cheek. She suppresses a shudder.  

She smiles at him, and they arrange themselves on the couch. “I had a really magical night,” she says, trying for a languid smile. 

“It felt so special,” he agreed. It’s small consolation that this is probably as unpleasant for him as it is for her.  

“Something really clicked for us,” she says, and he reaches for her.

They make out a little— ugh— they sip some wine, they gaze at each other, until finally, Bellamy calls “cut! G’night guys.”

Once again, he’s sleeping in the adjoining room, and he hurries off there with his camera. Clarke heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed. She finds herself going deliberately slowly, folding up her clothes as she takes them off, showering to try ease her legs which ache from all the walking, washing and drying her hair.  

By the time she gets out, Murphy is already in bed, snoring softly. She stares for a moment, eyes adjusting to the dark, and then she knows with mounting certainty that she can’t get into that bed.  Sharing a bed with Wells is one thing, but with Murphy— who she still thinks might be a felon— is quite another. She can’t do it. So she paces around the room, back-and-forth, arms crossed over her chest, exhausted and anxious. 

Her eye falls on the side door and she bites her lip. It’s illogical, but she pads across the carpet and knocks once, softly. 

She hears some shuffling, and then he’s there, in front of her, blinking through his glasses. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says.

“Me neither.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “So, uh, yeah, come in.” 

She steps carefully around him as he pulls the door shut.  

“Are you nervous?” he asks. 

“Huh?” 

He stares at her. “You know, you’re choosing your fiancé tomorrow?” 

She freezes. “Shit,” she hisses, “ _shit_. I completely forgot.” The final is indeed tomorrow. 

Bellamy splutters a laugh. “Nice, Clarke. How did you forget? That’s the whole point of this thing.” 

“Just tired, I guess,” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes.

He instantly looks concerned. “Crap, you must be exhausted. Well, you’ve got a long day tomorrow.” 

The weariness is making her head feel like cotton wool now. “I don’t wanna go back,” she says, crinkling her nose, “Murphy’s in the bed. S’okay, I’ll just stay up for a bit.” 

Bellamy swallows. She can see his Adam’s Apple bobbing as she shakes his head. “You can take my bed,” he says, “come on.” 

She lets him pull the sheets back for her and crawls in, only to sit back up when he heads for the couch. 

“Where are you going?” she demands. 

“Um. To sleep?” 

“No, that’s ridiculous, there’s room here,” she says, patting the bed. 

He swallows again. “Clarke…” 

She’ll later blame tiredness on her insistence. “C’mere.”

He makes his way to the bed slowly, but climbs in next to her, clicking out the bedside light. “'Night Clarke.” His voice is rough, strained. 

She turns round so that she’s facing him, picking out his face in the dimness. Slowly, unthinkingly, she reaches out with a fingertip to trace the contours of his profile. He tenses at her touch but doesn’t move. She runs her finger up the bridge of his nose, around the arch of his eyebrows, tracing the curve of his lips, shivering when she feels his breath. She imagines she’s drawing him, but using his face as the canvas, she trails as lightly as she would with a pencil. 

“Clarke…” he sounds— wrecked. There’s no other way to describe it. He sounds completely wrecked. 

“Did you know you’ve got stars on your face?” she whispers, half-asleep as her fingers tap his freckles delicately, trying to count them all. 

A wracking sound escapes from his throat. “My mom… used to say something like that,” he manages, closing his eyes, and Clarke moves her fingers to his eyelids, his lashes, brushing them with impossible gentleness. They’re feathery under her touch, long for a guy. 

When she’s traced every inch of his face with her fingers, she leans forward, slightly, her head still on the pillow, and brushes her lips to his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. She peppers little butterfly kisses wherever she can reach until he clasps her either side of her face carefully with his hands. “You’ve gotta stop, Clarke,” he pleads, resting his forehead on hers, “you can’t. You’re killing me.” 

If this was daylight, and his eyes were open, and she was awake, the words might hurt. But it’s night and she’s halfway to dreaming and his hands are warm so she just mumbles “sorry,” and lets him turn her gently around to sleep.

 

 - - -

 

“Hey.” 

Clarke blinks awake, and sees Bellamy crouching by the bed, shaking her gently. “What time it is?” she asks, bleary. 

“Time for you to choose a fiancé. Or. Well. To get ready for the day on which you choose your fiancé.” 

Her stomach sinks like a stone at that, but she swallows a grimace. “Right. Thanks for waking me.”

“Ah, it’s what I’m here for.” He turns away and starts fiddling with the camera bag. The previous night comes drifting back to Clarke in hazy snatches, and she feels herself flushing a little.  

She swings herself out of bed and stumbles back to her own room. Murphy is still asleep, so she gets ready in record time and leaves before he can. 

There’s a car waiting for her. 

“Clarke,” say Marcus pleasantly as he greets her, “how’re you feeling?”

 _Nauseous. Apoplectic._ “Um. Nervous,” she says, smiling weakly. 

“Ah, it’s only natural. Well,” he says, “we’d best be leaving now.” 

“What about Bellamy?” she says. 

“Oh, he’ll be filming Wells and Murphy today,” Kane beams, conspiratorial. “They’ve got a busy day ahead of them.” 

A surge of panic rises in her, unbidden. _I didn’t say goodbye_ she thinks. Which is, of course, melodramatic and absurd— it’s not like she’s never going to see him again. It’s only a day, for God’s sake. But last night she fell asleep next to him and wondered vaguely what it would have been like if she could have kissed him, and the next time she sees him there’ll be a guy down on one knee in front of her.  

The day isn’t nearly busy enough for Clarke’s liking, mostly a bunch of posing and preening. She feels anxious and jittery, and there’s a constant buzzing in her head. 

At lunch, she has to read love-letters from Wells and Murphy. Murphy’s is slicker than an oil spill and turns her stomach, Wells is deliberately ridiculous and she feels grateful as the laughter threatens to burst from her lips. It fizzles away when she thinks, _I’ve got to marry one of them_.

 

 - - -

 

Clarke has to roll her eyes when she sees the venue chosen for the proposal. It's in some kind of Roman garden with a statue of Aphrodite and a view of the Tiber, and it couldn’t be more cheesily romantic if they’d stuck her on the back of the _Titanic_ with Leonardo DiCaprio stretching his arms out behind her. 

Bellamy and the crew pull up about five minutes after she does. Her throat goes dry when she sees him, but he doesn’t look at her, almost pointedly avoids it. And she gets it. It’s fine. It is. 

Murphy’s the first one there. Rejecting him is so easy it’s almost dull. She can see in his eyes that he’s unconcerned— actually, no, he’s thrilled because now he gets to be the next Bachelor and earn another fat paycheck— despite his theatrical declarations of heartbreak. 

There’s a restless lull after Murphy leaves and she waits for Wells. 

“Clarke, could we, uh, get a little more excitement?” calls Kane, “you’re getting ready to start your life with the love of your life! Smile!” 

Her life. Clarke sees it now. She and Wells won’t actually have to get married, obviously, but they’ll basically be forced into hiding by the network for months while the show airs. They’ll become public property, the subject of endless tabloid speculation and social media gossip. Then they’ll make their “relationship” official and go around acting in-love for months. And god knows how long the network will make them pretend to be together…  

As Wells gets out of the car, Clarke sees Bellamy again. He looks at her this time, just a glance, a flash of the eyes.  

The breath escapes her like she’s been punched. “Hey,” she manages to croak to Wells. 

“Hey,” he returns, smiling. He knows she hasn’t chosen Murphy. 

She smiles, with effort, and takes his hand. He squeezes it, warm. “Clarke,” he begins, “since the day we met I’ve felt about you the way I’ve never felt about any—”

“Stop,” she says suddenly, “I’m sorry Wells, I can’t let you go on.” 

The atmosphere in the set is suddenly charged to a hundred, very tense, very still. Wells’s eyes widen, first in confusion, and then in understanding. Clarke feels the heat of Bellamy’s gaze on her.  

“I don’t understand?” Wells cries, though the squeeze of his hands says he very clearly does.  

“I’m sorry, Wells, but this is my whole life. I just don’t feel the way I need to with you, and I wish it was you, I do, but it isn’t!”

She bursts into tears, only half for camera, and Wells hugs her close, trying to look grief-stricken as he whispers in her ear “ _Yes!_ ”

 

 - - -

 

“What the hell was that?” cries Marcus, throwing his hands in the air, “what the _hell_? You’ve jeopardised the whole show! This is completely unprecedented behavior, I am sure your contract says something about this!” 

“I did what I had to, Marcus,” says Clarke, her eyes trained on the statue of Aphrodite, trying very hard to regulate her breathing. 

“You did, do you? Because let me tell you—” 

“Hey,” Bellamy steps forward and claps a hand on Marcus’s shoulder, “why don’t we all take five?” 

Marcus makes a strangles screech and marches off, yelling into his phone, leaving Clarke and Bellamy staring at each other. He looks expectant. 

“I know it was crazy,” she says, twisting her fingers. “I do. But I was standing there, and I was just thinking about what this all meant. And I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t sign over my life like that! Not when there’s someo-something else I want,” she glances at him quickly, but he’s still just staring, “which of course doesn’t matter, because I don’t even know if that…. _possibility_ is even really, well, possible, and—” 

“You through?” 

She bites her lip, nodding. 

He stares at her for another moment.  

“Say _something_ ,” she begs. 

He doesn’t. And suddenly he’s surging forward, he’s holding her face, firmly, desperately, pulling her towards him. She cranes to meet him halfway, and then they’re kissing, his tongue parting the seam of her lips and stealing her breath from her, their lips bruising and demanding, her hands scrambling to touch every inch off him they can, his back, his shoulders, his neck, before knotting in his hair. He walks them back so she’s crowded against the low ivy-covered wall, and he slides his hands under her thighs and hoists her up, eliciting a gasp against his mouth, so that’s she’s sitting on it. He settles himself between her legs, and when they break for air he moves immediately to rain kisses all over her cheek, her jaw, a trail down her neck, along her collar, relentless, ecstatic. 

It could be an infinity or it could be an instant before they stop, and then they just stare at each other. Clarke’s hands are still in his hair, his are still at her waist. 

“You like me,” she says, grinning and breathless. 

He laughs, resting their foreheads together. “Did you not already get that?” 

Clarke can’t stop smiling. “I didn’t know,” she said, “you said I was a princess. And then we were friends. And you slept with Raven. And then I drew you. And then…” 

“ _Clarke_ ,” he says, absurdly fond, with something in his face that warms Clarke from the inside out, as he brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’m in love with you.” Her breath catches in her throat. “I’m in love with you, and I’ve literally been going out of my mind these past few months trying to ignore it because I didn’t think anything was possible, and I failed miserably, and I don’t care because I’m in love with you.” 

There’s really nothing to do but kiss him there. Well, kiss him, and then pull back to look at the boy with the stars on his face and the world in his eyes, and say “I’m in love with you too, Bellamy Blake.”

 

 - - -

 

“How much trouble are we in, exactly?” Bellamy asks for the fiftieth time this. 

“ _We’re_ not in any trouble,” Clarke says, “you didn’t technically break your contract. _I_ might get sued into oblivion by the ABC network.” 

“We’re in this together,” he says, taking her hand. 

“Thanks, wildcat.” 

He rolls his eyes. “See if I try being supportive again.” 

She laughs and folds herself into his side as his arm comes up around her. They’re in his bed in his apartment, Clarke has incurred the wrath of one of America’s largest networks, she reckons her mother might actually disown her, and she’s never been happier. 

Bellamy clears his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” 

Clarke glances at him sidelong. “This is kind of soon for the break-up talk but okay.” 

Bellamy snorts. “Please, you’re not getting away that easy. I wanted to talk to you about my job. The one at the museum.” 

Clarke sighs. The museum sounds fantastic, and it’s going to help make Bellamy’s dreams come true, so she is theoretically 100% behind it. It’s also in New York, which she’s been trying very hard not to think about. “Yeah,” she says. “Look, I know we’ve only been together for like a month, but if long-distance is the way we’ve gotta go…well, I’m in if you’re in.” 

He smiles. “Whilst I appreciate the enthusiasm, that’s actually not what I was going to say.” 

“Pray enlighten me then.” 

“Patience, grasshopper.” He pauses, and looks nervous. “So, I was on the phone with my new boss the other day. And. Well, he mentioned that they’ve just redone their art wing.” He looks at her watchfully. “They’re looking for a new curator. A pretty permanent one too.”  

Clarke bites her lip. 

“I—I mentioned that I might know one. If she was interested.”  

Clarke stares at him, stares hard. 

“Look, I know this is crazy, it’s the other side of the country, and I totally get it if you want to take it slow and don’t feel ready for this. But I just thought—” 

“She’s interested.” Clarke laughs, laughs and hugs him and laughs some more. “She’s interested, Bell, she is absolutely and completely interested.” 

Bellamy huffs a laugh of his own, bending to kiss her. “Oh. Oh thank _god_.” 

And yeah, Clarke has to agree.

 

 - - - 

 

She doesn’t get sued. It turns out Abby Griffin isn’t completely heartless, and actually seems willing to get to know her daughter’s boyfriend. Clarke is still a little wary— her mother was responsible for there being a show to ruin— but Bellamy points out that if she’s shielding her from a high profile lawsuit that would almost certainly bankrupt her, Abby can’t be all bad. 

Much to their annoyance, none of their friends are even pretending to be surprised by their relationship.

“Seriously,” says Octavia, “I knew Bellamy was an oblivious dork, but I expected more from you, Clarke!”

“I still don’t understand how _neither_ of you knew,” remarks Raven, “like, every time you’re near each other I half expect _Take My Breath Away_ to start blasting.” 

“Oh shut up,” says Bellamy without heat, burying his smile in Clarke’s hair, “at least we got there.”

 _Yeah_ , Clarke thinks as she presses a kiss to his cheek and laughs at his tirade about the Library of Alexandria (“think of the _knowledge_!”), _yeah we certainly did._

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed it, comments and kudos would mean the world! Come cry with me on [tumblr](http://kingedmundactually.tumblr.com)!


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